Grey Wreaths and Wrinkled Petals
by scrumptiousinternetllama
Summary: For Emma. She was grateful for him, and whatever quality she possessed that kept him bringing colour back into her life.


**AN: Written for Emma (APhoenixRising) as a huge thank you for moderating this season of QLFC!**

Grey Wreaths and Wrinkled Petals

Parvati let her fingers trace the names carved into the stone. The cold winter air bit at her fingertips as she bent to lay the wreath before the memorial with blurry eyes. As she let the tears spill over and the wreath leave her grip, it seemed as if the cold sucked the colour from it. She stepped back, careful not to step on the wrinkled petals of the countless flowers people had laid months and years before.

They shouldn't have had to fight.

She squeezed her eyes shut and a flash of blonde hair swept across the back of her eyelids. She opened her eyes, which had filled with tears again.

Lavender had been so full of _life_ and colour and happiness. Then she had died—attacked by a werewolf. Her fist clenched around the fabric of her plain black kameez. It wasn't fair.

And then a hand, warm and comforting, covered her fist. Instead of the overwhelming numbness of her senses, she could smell cocoa butter and the slightest bit of invigorating lemon-scented aftershave. She looked down to see hands clad in bright blue gloves, a pastel pink scar exposed through a hole in them.

It was difficult to comprehend just how much she loved Dean. He managed to give her exactly what she needed all the time, and she couldn't be more grateful. Leaning back and into his arms, Parvati could feel his smile in her dark hair, and the feeling of being safe enveloped her.

Within an instant of his appearance, Parvati felt like she could smile again. Dean was a breath of fresh, positive air, and as she exhaled, Parvati could see the wreath, pastel pink and pretty, lying at the foot of the memorial, the meaning sucked back into them in Dean's presence.

"Do you want to go home now?" asked Dean, the question muttered into her hair.

She took a deep breath and nodded slowly; within seconds, they had Apparated into their home.

This house was their safe haven.

The living room had walls made of knotted bamboo, and it _breathed_ lightness. She needed it, and so did he after the dreariness of the outdoors. It was as if everyone was still holding onto the horrors of the past, and Parvati was glad the quirky decorations were hidden inside the four walls of her home. They felt… too brash and disrespectful for the outside.

The two of them made their way up the staircase to the only bedroom. The room was all light greys and whites, with the bedsheets a splatter of colourful, silk patchwork. It gave her something to focus on—something to keep her grounded when her memories threatened to overwhelm her.

As they removed their layers and the light of the sunset faded along their pale walls, the two of them slid beneath the sheets to watch a movie. It was routine for them now. Before, Parvati had never liked routine, but after the war, she had needed familiarity for comfort, and she had found it in Dean.

Today, they were watching a movie she hadn't heard of before. She tried her best to ignore the blonde hair of the woman on the cover.

"Is this an old movie?" she asked, confused.

Dean smiled. "No, it's quite a recent one."

He was too busy fumbling with the remote to notice the way her expression tightened. She remembered Colin Creevey and his passion for a place called the 'cinema'... more blond.

As they were watching, Parvati began to feel more and more suffocated. The blonde woman was in almost every scene, and seeing her reminded her of Lavender far too much for her to follow the storyline. She wasn't sure she wanted to, anyway. The entire production was painfully Muggle, and it only served to remind her of the war and the pureblood fanaticism that had caused it.

Why did everything remind her of the war?

Then the sound cut off, and she turned to look directly into Dean's concerned brown eyes. The warmth radiating from him was enough to overwhelm her with relief and she couldn't help but tear up.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, fumbling clumsily for something to wipe her eyes with. Dean's hands wrapped around her wrists to make her pause for a moment.

"Look at me," he said, gently, and Parvati let the tears fall from her eyes until she could see him properly.

"I'm sorry," she said again, hiccupping and feeling pathetic for it.

Dean frowned. "Don't be," he said. His tone soothed her anxieties like a lullaby soothed a child and she found herself leaning into him, desperate for more of the calm he instilled in her. "Tell me when something's making you hurt," he continued. When she didn't speak—she couldn't—he added, "Please."

He'd let go of her wrists and she had her hands bunched in the fabric of his pyjama shirt, but at the sound of his hurt voice, she let go and moved her hands to his face. He looked pleading and she couldn't help but press her lips to his. Even the taste of salt couldn't make it bitter.

When they parted, she spoke: "I promise I will," she said, and she could feel the relief emanating from him. "I'm so lucky to have you," she whispered, letting the words out in the open.

Dean shook his head slightly, their noses brushing. "I'm lucky to have _you_."

Parvati didn't know what Dean saw in the wreck she had become since the war, but all she knew was that she was grateful for whatever quality she possessed that kept him loving her and bringing colour back into her life.


End file.
